


Instead

by elfiepike



Category: Kanjani8 (Band), So Nyuh Shi Dae | Girls' Generation
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Community: je_whiteday, Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfiepike/pseuds/elfiepike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an ideal world, they could walk down the street holding hands, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikelander](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=spikelander).



> this absolutely could not have been written without [spurious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spurious) holding my hand and beta-reading and giving me a million videos of ryo-chan making inappropriate (or perhaps entirely too appropriate) noises while ladies pull his body in various directions. SPURIOUS, I LOVE YOU. originally posted anonymously for white day 2012, [here](http://je-whiteday.livejournal.com/51326.html).

In an ideal world, they could walk down the street holding hands, maybe. Maybe it would be summer and they'd wander from one air-conditioned shop to another. Her shorts would be so short that if he let his hand drop from her waist he'd be touching her thighs right away.

Maybe that kind of thing would be okay, in this pretend world where neither of them is famous: those casual, intimate touches in a public place. She could stand too close on to him on the train when the crowds were thin enough that there was no way to justify it, and he could press up against her. When the train rocked with a turn she could feel the shape of him against her ass--they were of a height where if she wasn't in heels they matched up perfectly for this kind of thing. She could smile at him over her shoulder, indulgently, like they would stand like that even if the train were empty, and they'd miss their stop in favor of enjoyable frustration.

Instead, they have endless messages to each other at all hours of the day. When her friends ask her about the frequent alerts on her phone, she says she's helping him with English. When the guys leer at at him and insinuate with their eyebrows and terrible puns, he just grins and makes sure his phone is password-locked.

Instead, they have furtive meetings in anonymous hotels right after the New Year's Day, Ryo's friends hustled into sightseeing without him while he puts on a hat and hops on a train to the other side of the city hoping for the best. 

She arrives almost an hour after she's supposed to, but he's been ready this whole time for her. It doesn't take much for him to _get_ ready--maybe twenty minutes, to shower and situate himself--but sometimes he forgets to _stay_ ready.

This time, though, this time he remembers, kneeling on the floor by the bed, facing the door. He's naked, not hard yet but...mentally, he's ready: to see what she has in mind for him; to see her, full stop.

She'd told him to wait like that, in her last email, when they'd confirmed the hotel reservation. He'd hadn't even needed to use the translator on his phone--he should tell her that. He thinks she'd be proud.

That's how he is, when the door unlocks with a click: waiting for her, thinking about how to make her proud of him. Thinking about how beautiful she is.

And she is: she's wearing a trench coat, something too fashionable to be real, and a fedora. Like she's out of some noir film, a devil woman in the flesh. He'd been ready but just the sight of her makes him sit up a little taller, hands on his thighs respectfully, the chill air coming in from the hallway making his nipples perk up a bit.

She smiles. "Look at you, my good boy," she says in English. She takes off her hat, opening the closet and setting it inside. Her coat is next, off in one smooth move, her slim arms revealed all the way to the top of the puffed cap-sleeves on her white dress: ruffled and adorable like a little girl's, but cut close to hips, the neckline plunging lower than even her costumes normally would, the bottom hem barely covering the crease between her ass and her thighs.

His mouth waters.

She turns back to him, everything put away, long hair falling half over her shoulder like she'd been styled especially for this. "Come here, pretty boy," she says, smiling at him more with her eyes than her mouth, like she's keeping something secret.

He gets up on his knees and then instinctively goes down on his hands. It only takes a few seconds to reach her--the room isn't that big--but when he looks up again the corners of her lips are curled up with satisfaction.

She slides a hand through his hair, tugging gently, then leans down and kisses him on the mouth without any further preamble. Her lips are smaller than his, but he likes it, likes feeling softer than her, likes opening his mouth for her, feeling her tongue slip in almost politely. He can't stop himself from tasting back, leaning up and up for her with his whole body, with his lips and teeth and tongue.

She lets go of his hair and pulls away from his mouth far too soon. "Get on the bed, pretty boy," she says, her tone sweet and hard at the same time, a suggestion filled with promise. "Flat on your back. You know how I like you."

He does.

-

She's on top of him, knees on either side of his head. His arms rest between her thighs and her stockinged heels like they are pretzeled-up together, but he can't even think about it with the way she's teasing him, rubbing her crotch against his face, letting him smell her through the soft lace.

There's a wet spot in them, now, though from his tongue or from her cunt he can't quite tell. It makes him hot to think about it being both of them, together, and cross-eyed from looking so close. "Please," he says, begs, really, because he's always gone to begging fast.

"In English," she says, sitting back enough to immobilize him.

He can feel the wet spot on his chest where her panties are soaked through and he can barely remember any English at all. He tries again, and must have gotten it right from how she smiles and gets up on her feet before sitting back again, freeing his arms. "Now your reward," she says.

He runs his hands up her stockings until they hit her bare thighs, uses one hand hand to pull her panties to the side but only his mouth to get her off, craning his neck for a better angle even as she lowers her body to help. She likes a harder touch than he might have thought from her image, and she calls him a good boy when he gets her close, her hands pulling his hair, directing him. He licks and licks and licks until she's gasping and crying out, her voice high and not all pretty at all. She comes on his tongue, his chin--he thinks he can feel her come slide down his neck, she's so wet.

He doesn't stop licking until she pulls her body back and pushes his forehead away. She sits on his chest again, panting and flushed, her bangs sticking to her forehead with sweat and her the space between her breasts shining. She's never been so beautiful.

-

"Turn over, pretty boy," she says, standing by the side of the bed, taking her stockings off one leg at a time, languidly, like now that she's come once she has all the time in the world.

He's hard enough that lying on his stomach is a uncomfortable, but he doesn't adjust himself--she'd just get mad and they don't have enough time for _that_ kind of scene.

She ties his arms together behind his back, elbow to wrist, wrapping one stocking around and around until she's satisfied with his immobility. Then she tells him to turn back over.

He doesn't even feel embarrassed about how he has to wriggle to manage it--just excited, anticipatory. He's on his back again just in time to watch her slide her panties down her bare legs. "Open your mouth, that's right," she says, rolling the lace into a ball. She puts them between his mouth, only halfway in, and the taste of her fills him up.

"My good boy," she says fondly, then ties the other stocking around his head until he's effectively gagged.

By the time she settles down on top of him, the ache in his shoulders and wrists from bearing his own weight is noticeable. As is the press of his heels against his ass, from where his legs are folded up underneath him.

She sits on his cock, her bare feet and calves brushing against his hips and her skirt riding up around her waist. She doesn't let him inside her, but instead slides on top of him, his cock slipping between her labia, her hips rotating in a sublime tease to him even as she closes her eyes and moans, sweet and high.

He can't help moaning in response, almost gurgling around the fabric in his mouth. She could go all night, he knows. In an ideal world, she would--but they only have a few hours and he can't keep track of the time. He couldn't even if he wanted to: everything is focused on the wet heat of her cunt around his hard cock, the strain of his muscles and joints.

But that's all right: she always times everything perfectly.

She comes again, curving over and trembling around him, resting her weight fully on his abdomen. Slight as she is, it is enough to change the angle of his legs, to press his shoulders even further back, the slow ache burning even deeper, like a rubber band pulled tight.

He makes a high, reedy noise from the pain; it's swallowed up by the panties in his mouth, so only his breath in wet gasps comes through, tears filling up his eyes.

The feeling shoots straight down to his cock.

She lifts her head, shifts on top of him dreamily, and pushes his hair off his forehead. "You've been so good, haven't you, my sweet boy."

She lays the most delicate of touches on his eyelid. The liquid overflows, runs down the side of his face and into his ear to mingle imperceptibly with his sweat.

She sits back, pinching his nipple almost as an afterthought but smiling when he writhes, and slides slowly off his thighs.

"Turn over, baby boy," she says, but she helps him get his legs out from under him, then unties his arms. "Sit up, that's right, just like that."

His legs are shaking, tremors working through the muscles. He can't keep still. He thinks he can tell each muscle in his arms apart now from how they each hurt separately. His eyes are still damp, and he feels every second like he's going to choke on her panties, the lace edging closer and closer to his throat.

"Touch yourself, baby," she says, sitting next to him but not touching him at all. "Come for me, boy--show me how much you love me."

He'd gone a little soft when moving around, but her voice in his ear has his hand moving over his cock, still slick with her come, and he's hard again in no time.

"That's right," she says, soft and pleased, her breath hot on his ear, "you know what makes me happy, don't you, pretty boy."

It's almost a shock when she touches him then, trailing her nails up his back. She's not pressing hard enough to leave a mark but it has the effect of setting off what seems like every nerve in his body, shivery touches making it impossible for him to sit still, distracting him from his hand on his cock. Finally she pulls on the hair at the nape of his neck, his head falling back, his throat stretched out--and she kisses him like that, over the stocking still in place.

He closes his eyes, and it's almost a relief the way his gag reflex kicks in as the press of her tongue pushes the panties just far enough to set it off.

He comes abruptly, his whole body shaking, the act of coming perhaps even less improtant than the heaving of his throat, and she's there, already pulling the stocking off his mouth, and the panties--wetter from his own saliva than they ever were from her. She kisses him again, soothing and somehow urgent, like she's not going to let him feel this by himself. "That's right," she says between kisses, "you did well, you were perfect, baby boy."

He regains his breath, shuddering, her hand rubbing circles into his back. He meets her eyes.

"How are you?" she asks, smiling and sated but attentive to him--it's a heady feeling even after he's come. He says something in English and even he's not entirely sure what. She corrects him, laughing, and he feels so content--maybe this is the ideal world, after all.

They have enough time for room service and shitty reality television, she tells him, letting him order while she goes to shower. He thinks he can still feel where her come dried around his mouth.

Maybe they'll never have that feeling of walking around without worrying about being seen. Maybe there is some universe where no one would care if they left the hotel together. But in this one, he'll be satisfied by jumping into the shower and making her laugh with his bad impressions of English-speaking actors. "Clarisse," he'll intone from behind the shower curtain, and she'll grin even while she calls him creepy.

It's enough.


End file.
